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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27948086">quiescent</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/irrationalqueer/pseuds/irrationalqueer'>irrationalqueer</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>advent 2020 [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Depression, Dissociation, Gen, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:33:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>862</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27948086</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/irrationalqueer/pseuds/irrationalqueer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s like nothing can touch him, when he’s like this. It’s like he’s a paper doll instead of an actual person.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dan Howell/Phil Lester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>advent 2020 [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2035507</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>quiescent</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s like nothing can touch him, when he’s like this. It’s like he’s a paper doll instead of an actual person. </p><p>If he was capable of actually comprehending his body right now, he’d probably say he was physically comfortable. He’s in bed and the bed is soft and has fresh sheets on it and the duvet smells nice and Phil had tucked it up around him earlier so he’s warm. He’s facing the wall, staring at the texture of the paint; the window is further up the wall, but Dan doesn’t raise his eyes to look at it. He’s naked, so there’s no weird restriction if he decides to roll over or whatever. He won’t, but still. </p><p>He hasn’t eaten today but he doesn’t feel hungry. There’s a glass of water on the nightstand in front of him, next to his phone - plugged in, again courtesy of Phil. If he manages to fall asleep, maybe he’ll wake up thirsty in the middle of the night. He can’t really imagine it right now, lost in the great vast nothingness, but somewhere in the spiral of nothing that is his brain, he knows it’s logical. The only thing he can do right now is stare straight ahead and accept that he is currently lost. </p><p>Phil had been in here with him earlier. He’d just sat on the other side of the bed, steady against the headboard, rereading one of his favorite novels. He does that - specifically picks the longest books he can that he’s already read, so he can occupy himself but also can drop what he’s doing at a moments notice if he needs to. If Dan needs him to. He usually does it in another room, unless Dan is looking particularly bad. Dan doesn’t really know how he looks right now, doesn’t care, but since Phil’s been here most of the day he doesn’t really have to wonder. He’s not here now, but Dan knows he hasn’t left the flat, and that’s all that really matters. </p><p>He can’t feel any of it. Not the gratitude for having someone to tuck him in and bring him water, not the hunger or thirst for missing out on multiple meals, not the chill of being naked in the middle of winter or the fullness of his bladder or the boredom of staring at the wall for hours in end. He can’t feel the exhaustion from not having slept recently - can’t feel any curiosity about how long it’s actually been. </p><p>Dan sees the wall in front of him, and he thinks. </p><p>He thinks about how very long he’s been alive, how many days and hours and minutes and how they seem to stretch into infinity and also disappear into nothing in the grand scheme of things. He considers that the world would be fundamentally the same if he were not in it, that the universe itself would not notice his absence. It would be at once freeing and terrifying, if he felt anything about it at all. He thinks about how distinctly wrong he feels right now - the way that he's not really sure he’s an actual person. He could be watching a movie of himself and feel exactly as disconnected from his body and mind as he does right now. He is aware of them, but in this moment they are not his. </p><p>Dan thinks about how he’d thought he was done with this. He’s accepted, for the most part, the way that depression takes things away from him that he has to fight to get back: his energy, his appetite, his good humor. But he’d thought this part was done, at least. Thought he’d at least be able to function instead of just stopping, unable to do anything to take care of himself, unable to take care of Phil. Instead he’s here, well into his twenties, dissociating and staring at the painted white wall in front of him. </p><p>There are things he should care about right now, he thinks. Work things, family things. Things that are unfair for Phil to have to deal with. But Dan literally can’t lift a finger to help him, can’t force himself to snap out of it, drift out of his own head for just long enough to be useful. Dan can lay here and breathe and stare, and that’s honestly about it. </p><p>Time passes. The curtains are drawn shut, but Dan thinks it’s probably raining. Phil comes back and gets comfortable again; Dan hears the clink of china and the dull sound of a mug being set on the other bedside table, smells a hint of something herbal. Phil doesn’t always go for herbal tea, but he does in the evenings. It’s either late enough for him to be winding down for bed or he’s feeling anxious and trying to go easy on the caffeine. Maybe Dan will be a person again tomorrow, can check in on him. </p><p>Dan feels Phil’s hand rest between his shoulder blades. It doesn’t feel good or bad. It just feels like a solid weight, holding him there. He closes his eyes, blinks away the sight of the wall, and tries to sleep.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>it’s my advent and i make the rules and i say you get two fics in one day and this one is angst </p><p>on tumblr @ irrationalqueer</p></blockquote></div></div>
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